


Before the Moon Starts Fading

by jill_ian



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: M/M, Nostalgia, Reunion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jill_ian/pseuds/jill_ian
Summary: When Jerry blinked, he was 20 years old and they were in Atlantic City. When he blinked again, he was 50 years old and they were in Las Vegas.





	Before the Moon Starts Fading

_Tell me at midnight, before the moon starts fading._  
_Tell me at midnight, why go on masquerading?_

* * *

It wasn’t that Jerry was afraid of the unknown. He had never been afraid of the unknown.

Truth be told, he wasn’t much afraid of anything. Never had been when he was young and now that time had taken its toll, he was even less so.

He learned quickly that the things worth being afraid of, if anything, were the things he _did_ know.

And what he _did_ know now, which he’d been wondering on and off for the better part of 20 years, was that it was still easy.

Almost _laughably_ easy.

To be on a stage with him. To look him in the eyes. To smile at him. To hug him. To hold him. To cling to him.

To feel like everything was back to how it should be.

How it used to be.

He supposed it was better that the whole thing had been a surprise. Jerry had admired Frank Sinatra for many things over the last 35 years, but for keeping it all under wraps, he undoubtedly deserved a thank-you note, dinner, and a kiss right on the mouth.

In being surprised, all they had to do was tap back into the magic. Jerry still had trust in the magic and it only took one look to realize that Dean did, too.

And now that he was here, standing outside the door to Dean’s hotel room, that’s all Jerry wanted. To trust in the magic. To walk right in and to look. To smile. To hug. Hold. Cling.

_Feel._

With no one else watching. No one else listening. As far as Jerry was concerned, no one else even existed.

Nobody but Dean.

His Dean.

Or so he used to be. When there were fewer wrinkles and even fewer grey hairs. When Dean’s suit filled out more at the shoulders and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes weren’t quite so deep.

But it couldn't be that simple. 

He and Dean had been many things, but _simple_ was never one of them.

Jerry hadn’t known what to do after the telethon when he went back to his dressing room to find a folded note sitting on his vanity table. He furrowed his brow as he picked it up and jumped when out fell the key that had been hidden inside. The note only had a few words, including the name of a hotel and a room number, but it was enough to make Jerry’s heart jump into his throat.

Even after all these years, Dean’s handwriting hadn’t changed.

His heart still hadn’t fallen when he pushed the key into the lock later that night, with his mind screaming, _“Run,”_ and his heart whispering, _“Don’t.”_ He pushed the door open gently, as though not to startle whoever was waiting on the other side, but there was no sign of life in the dim room. It was only when he walked in further that he noticed the open balcony door on the opposite side of the room.

His step faltered as he laid eyes on him.

Because when Jerry blinked, he was 20 years old and they were in Atlantic City. The balcony was smaller. The air was warmer, sweeter. The sky was pink around Dean’s strong frame as he watched the sun set. He’d taken off his dress shirt in favor of a thin, grey wife beater to battle the heat, showing off the toned muscles in his back as he leaned over the railing. Dean turned his head when he heard Jerry’s footsteps and smiled when their eyes met, saying, _“C’mere, you’re gonna miss it,”_ around the cigarette that always hung lazily from his lips.

When Jerry blinked again, he was 50 years old and they were in Las Vegas. Dean had his back to the door, standing in the middle of a large balcony that made him look too small, wearing a suit that hung a little looser than Jerry wished he noticed. His big hands were curled around the railing in front of him with a short cigarette pinched between two stiff fingers. His head was tilted up towards the sky, undoubtedly trying to find the stars that were drowned out by the bright city below.

Jerry stood in the balcony doorway for a long moment, not wanting to upset Dean’s moment of peace. His eyes followed Dean’s hand as it disappeared behind his silhouette and it was only a second before there was a thick cloud of grey smoke around his head, bright against the black sky.

Jerry’s heart was beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

He wrapped softly on the balcony’s glass door with his knuckles, the open air eating at most of the sound, but Dean turned his head and there was already an easy smile pulling at his lips.

That same smile that had the ability to make Jerry forget about anything and everything that had ever gone wrong in his entire life.

Jerry couldn’t help but smile back despite the fear swirling hot in his stomach.

His hand came up to rub nervously at the back of his neck. “They uh, they told me I’d find a washed up organ grinder up here.”

Dean nodded, accepting the title and playing along. “Who’s asking?”

“A washed up monkey.”

Dean’s smile grew. He motioned with his head for Jerry to join him out further on the balcony.

Jerry crossed the short distance between them on shaking legs and stood off to Dean’s side, placing a careful few inches between them and leaning forward with his hands around the railing.

The first thing that hit him was the smoky scent of the Lucky that Dean was puffing on, but if he breathed in deeply enough, somewhere beneath it, he could make out the faint smell of Dean’s Woodhue. He let his weight fall a little more heavily on the rail in front of him, fully aware of how weak has knees had grown since he had started trying to chase the scent of his cologne with each inhale, so far away, but still so familiar it almost hurt.

It completely broke his train of thought when Dean’s hand came into view in front of him and it took a second for him to process that Dean was holding his cigarette out to him, offering him a drag.

Luckies had never been his brand of choice, but the first time Dean held half his cigarette out to him for a puff he hardly hesitated. The trust and the casual intimacy inherent to such a gesture hadn’t been lost on him at the time, nor were they now.

Just as he had done so many times before, Jerry whispered a quick, “Thanks,” as he took it from him, trying to ignore the electricity that shot up his arm when their fingers brushed, bringing it up to his lips.

He inhaled slowly and it tasted like hundreds of early morning sunrises after a long night of shows and late night conversations on trains headed across the country. Like lazy afternoons on the beach and long drives with the top down and the warm California sun on his cheeks.

It tasted like mornings in bed with a strong arm wrapped around his waist and soft, curly hair tickling at his neck. Like interlaced fingers and stolen kisses in the back row of a dark movie theatre.

It also tasted like the odd pack of Luckies Jerry had hidden for chilly walks on sleepless nights and for calming pre-show jitters in a dressing room that only had one name on the door. Like the inability to change the radio station despite the way his hand itched in his pocket and buying a magazine even though the article inside was only going to tear his heart open all over again.

Determination was the only thing that kept his hand from shaking as he held the cigarette back out to Dean after one last drag.

“You can finish it if you want,” Dean offered, voice ringing in his ears.

Jerry bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head. “That’s alright,” he said, inching his hand closer to Dean’s in hopes that he’d catch the hint.

He didn’t know what to make of it when Dean made no move to take it back from him or when Dean turned his head in his direction, but Jerry kept his gaze set forward, focused on the vague outline of the city.

Dean’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“You’re awful quiet.”

“Tired,” he sighed, only half lying.

Dean hesitated for a long second. “Y’know I don’t bite, right?”

Jerry nodded. “’Course.”

He paused again. “Then how come you look like that?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like you’re nervous.”

And just like that, Jerry’s heart was up in his throat again. His eyes fixated on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette and dissipating in the air between them.

_Because I don’t know how to make small talk with the person that’s seen my soul._

He shook his head, half trying to rid himself of the thought and half answering the question, his lips pursing with an involuntary twitch.

“I’m not,” he said. He hadn’t expected the answer to make Dean laugh, but when it did, he was hit with a near immediate wave of confusion and he couldn’t help but look him in the eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’,” Dean said, a chuckle still lifting his voice as he finally took the cigarette back from him.

“What?” Dean shook his head instead of answering and so Jerry repeated himself. _“What?”_

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, eyes bright with something like amusement. “I guess I’m just a little surprised.”

Jerry’s brow furrowed. “At what?”

“That your lips still twitch when you’re lying.”

Jerry turned his nose into the material of his jacket at the shoulder, subsequently hiding his mouth against it, the impulse too strong to push down when he was feeling so exposed. “No they don’t.”

“Then what’re you hiding from?” Dean teased, obviously trying to coax a smile out of him. “It’s just me.”

A humorless laugh fell from Jerry's lips. _“Just you,”_ he repeated to himself, words no louder than a breath, but he didn’t give Dean the chance to respond. Instead he opted to keep going by saying, “Look, Dean, I-”

“Dean?” He laughed again and this time, it made Jerry flinch.

“Now what’re you laughing at?” he huffed, lifting his head back up, full pout shaping his lips.

He repeated himself a little more matter-of-factly. “Dean.”

“No, I’m Jerry.”

“But you called me Dean.”

“That’s your name.”

“To you?”

Jerry felt his cheeks go hot and he was suddenly grateful that it was probably too dark for Dean to see them turning red.

“Well I don’t know.” Jerry turned his head back forward to lose eye contact, embarrassment and uncertainty and something like hope all tugging at his resolve. “It’s been a while.”

“Not _that_ long.”

Dean brought the cigarette back up to his lips one last time before throwing it over the edge of the balcony. Once upon a time, Jerry would have yelled at him for it- _because there’s an ashtray right behind you, you know_ -and for a second, he let himself wonder if Dean had done it on purpose.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Dean turn his body to face him, hip against the railing, but his breath caught when he Dean’s big hand found his cheek, turning his head again softly, forcing him to look him in the eyes.

Jerry’s hands tightened around the railing. _“Paul?”_

The corner of Dean’s lip lifted as his thumb swiped at his cheekbone. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Standing.”

“No,” Jerry said around the laugh that had bubbled in the back of his throat, pushing himself up off the railing, finally allowing himself to stand toe-to-toe with Dean, to look him square in the eyes. “I mean, what are you _doing?_ Why’d you invite me here?”

“I wanted to see you.” And when he said it like that, it sounded so easy. Almost like he was telling someone that the sky was blue and the grass was green. Like it was a fact. A given.

“You saw me at the show.”

“Well yeah, but I couldn’t talk to you there.” Dean’s voice had gone soft and Jerry was trying to ignore the butterflies running rampant through his insides. “Not _really_ talk to you.”

“So talk.” Jerry’s eyes flashed down when Dean pushed his hip off the railing, now standing tall, his hand sliding to rest on the side of his neck. “Now’s your chance. I got ears.”

Jerry had expected Dean to laugh. He expected Dean to fire back the snappy remark that he knew he already had lined up.

He hadn’t expected how slowly Dean would lean forward. How softly Dean would press his lips to his. How easily Dean’s hand would move to the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in the slick hair at the nape of his neck. How naturally his own hands would part the front of Dean’s jacket to hold onto his sides.

How sweet and familiar the smack of their lips would sound when they broke apart.

Jerry couldn’t seem to catch his breath and the fact that Dean was already looking at him when he opened his eyes a few seconds later hadn’t helped.

His chest was still heaving when he said, “M’not sure I heard you right.” And Dean’s laugh was like music to his ears.

“No?” he asked, to which Jerry shook his head slowly.

Dean was still smiling when he leaned back in, knocking the wind right out of Jerry’s lungs all over again.

Because he couldn’t believe that Dean’s lips were still so smooth. That the pads of his fingers were still so perfectly rough against his skin. That he still tasted like Luckies and a little bit like scotch, the same kind he always drank when he needed to calm his nerves. That he still gasped when Jerry tilted his head ever so slightly to deepen a kiss.

That he still moved so willingly when Jerry finally tugged him closer, needing to feel more of him in order to convince himself that this was actually happening.

When they broke apart, Jerry wasted no time in burying his face in Dean’s neck, eyes shut tight, hands spread wide over Dean’s back between his shirt and his jacket like this might be the last chance he’d have to touch as much of him as he possibly could. And if he thought the slight hint of Dean’s cologne had been overwhelming before, his chest ached at how strong it was here, at how warm his skin was and how perfectly he fit against the curve of his shoulder.

Dean’s arms settled around him easily, tenderly, lacking Jerry’s urgency, but not his emotion. His heart skipped a beat when Dean pressed a kiss to the top of his head, resting his lips there, words muffled as he asked, “Hear me now?”

Jerry nodded, nose brushing against Dean’s neck, completely content here. Hugging. Holding. Clinging.

_Feeling._

But nothing in his whole life could have prepared him for the way Dean whispered, “Missed you, kid,” into his hair.

Before he could help it, Jerry felt tears fill his eyes. He tried like hell to blink them away, but it was too little too late and they felt like fire on his cheeks. If Dean noticed how damp his neck had become, he didn’t say as much out loud, but Jerry felt his arms tighten around him ever so slightly and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t lean further into the embrace.

He swallowed hard around the lump that had grown in his throat. “I missed you, too, Paul.”

Jerry closed his eyes.

Eventually, Dean would walk him inside. Dean would pour himself a drink and sit on the bed, back against the headboard with Jerry sat cross-legged at his side, facing him. Jerry would pull Dean’s hand into his lap, tracing hard lines he recognized and others he didn’t as he finally began talking, his stomach in knots and his voice quiet like he was telling secrets. Dean’s eyes would never leave his.

Jerry would kiss him because he could. Dean would lay him back against the pillows because he could. They wouldn’t get any sleep.

But most of all? They would be okay.

There were still conversations that needed to be had, things that need to be said, air that needed to be cleared, but they would be okay.

Jerry knew as much now.

And it didn’t scare him one bit.

* * *

_Kiss me at midnight, let us love now or never._  
_Tell me at midnight, your heart is mine forever._

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Jump on the reunion fic bandwagon? Pretty much. But I really hope you liked it!
> 
> The title and the lyrics at the beginning/end come from Frank Sinatra/Tommy Dorsey's "Tell Me At Midnight" if you wanna give that a listen.
> 
> Catch me over at holdenduckfield.tumblr.com


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